


somebody told me

by winchesters



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Punk Band Au, les mis punk week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire (starving artist, cynic) meets Enjolras (punk band frontman, idealist) at a punk club. They hit it off, but can a constant skeptic and an overzealous student revolutionary make it work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for les mis punk week (of course i waited until the last day to publish it). see if you can catch the two musical references in this chapter (hint: think 'la vie boheme'.

The band playing on stage sucks major balls, but Grantaire is more intent on getting totally shit-faced than actually listening to the music so he doesn't really mind. He downs another shot of whiskey and tries to drown out the horrible screeching from onstage (the lead singer, a scrawny guy in his late teens, is screaming something about love being comprable to the sting of a tattoo needle). Grantaire is relieved when the awful wail dies down and another band ascends to the stage. 

"Hi, we're Red and Black," says the frontman–and holy shit, he's hot, all wild blonde hair and eyes like goddamned sapphires. "And we're here to sing about saying 'fuck you' to the man." 

This earns a laugh and a round of cheers from the audience, and then they launch into a series of gritty songs about police brutality and barricades and fighting for what you believe in even when the world tries to shut you down. Grantaire finds himself actually _listening_ to the lyrics, and they're a little like poetry. He wonders if the pretty-boy frontman wrote them. He seems like the 'social justice warrior' type. Jean elbows Grantaire in the side. 

"See the drummer?" 

The guy in question is short, with a mass of dark curls and a cheeky grin on his face. 

"Yeah," Grantaire says. 

"I'm taking him home tonight." 

The little poet takes a long draught of beer, as if gathering courage, and then heads for the stage. Grantaire follows, because a) Jean is his ride home tonight and b) he feels like he has to look out for the guy even if dreamy, romantic Jean could take out linebacker with one well-placed kick from his steel-toed boots. They work their way through the crowd of moshers at the front (they're actually a pretty tame audience, compared to some of the venues that Grantaire frequents) until they reach the raised platform. Red and Black has already cleared off, and they're in the back room packing their stuff up. The din of the club fades away–thank god, because the band currently performing has a Sid Vicious-wannabe screaming about death into the mic. 

"Your last song was great," Jean gushes, already chatting up the entire band. The bass player, a tall, gentle-looking fellow, has a pretty dark-haired girl hanging off his arm, but the other members seem to be alone. 

"Thanks," says the frontman. "It's great to hear positive feedback. We're trying to reach a wide audience with this kind of thing, you know?" 

"Totally," Jean replies, sidling up to the drummer. " _You_ were fantastic. I've always wanted to learn how to play the drums.

Grantaire finds himself in a conversation with the bassist (his name is Combeferre, and he's actually a medical student) and his girlfriend (Eponine, she's the lead singer in an all-female punk band called Catscratch). 

"I like your message," Grantaire offers when they finish talking about school and work and the weather. "A lot of this stuff is just total bullshit, ya know?"

Combeferre laughs.

"We play clubs like this every weekend, trust me when I say that we've heard about a million bad Fall Out Boy covers." 

"A million too many," says Eponine, sliding her arm around Combeferre's waist. 

"Enjolras is really into spreading a message of change to the masses," Combeferre adds. "A lot of people just want to hear about brawling against riot police and building barricades, but revolution is so much more than that." 

The word 'revolution' seems to attract the attention of the frontman, who abandons packing up his guitar and drifts over to join the conversation.

"And this is Enjolras," Combeferre introduces. "The young revolutionary punk himself." 

Enjolras actually blushes a little bit, and sweeps his damp hair away from his face.

"Grantaire," Grantaire offers, and they shake hands. "I really dig your sound. Not just like, the songs, but the lyrics." 

Enjolras positivly lights up. Grantaire's been sharing an apartment with Jean long enough to know that complimenting a writer's work is the way to their heart. 

"Thanks!" Enjolras says. "We're trying to preach equality, you know, and we're really all about peaceful protest but a lot of people just want to hear about ripping up paving stones and smashing police car windshields." 

It turns out that Enjolras is a political science major at the university a few blocks from Grantaire's apartment, and they have a friend in common: Bahorel, the mohawked baker who works at Good Earth Coffee Shop, is the boyfriend of Red and Black's sound technician, Feuilly. 

Combeferre and Eponine eventually drift away, but Grantaire and Enjolras keep talking until Combeferre comes over and says,

"We're hitting the road." 

Grantaire looks over just in time to hear Jean saying,

"They say that drummers bang harder. Is that true?"

 _God damnit,_ Grantaire thinks. If Jean goes home with this guy, then he has no ride. And public transportation in this area is sketchy at best. The dark-haired drummer shoots Jean a smirk.

"Come back to mine and we can find out." 

Grantaire groans audibly, and Enjolras rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Need a ride somewhere? Combeferre has a van." 

"That would be great," Grantaire says, releived. As he follows Enjolras and the rest of the band out into the alley, he thinks,  _I could get used to this._


	2. Chapter 2

Of course Combeferre’s van breaks down ten minutes after they leave the club, the engine emitting a guttural screech as Combeferre limps it over to the side of the road. Grantaire, crammed into the back with the drum kit and Enjolras, tries to extract himself while Combeferre and Eponine examine the smoking engine and curse at the malfunctioning vehicle. 

“Piece of shit,” Eponine groans, aiming a kick at the van’s tire. Combeferre gives her a stern look.

“Hey, it’s not her fault! Bahorel borrowed her the other day, probably fucked up the transmission.” 

He gives the hood a comforting pat and Grantaire thinks that it’s pretty adorable that he calls the van _she_. 

“I’m going to walk down to the gas station,” says Combeferre, “and call Feuilly.” 

Eponine links her arm through his.

“I’ll come with you,” she offers, bumping softly against him. “You know, as muscle.” 

Grantaire is pretty sure that Eponine (who can’t be taller than 5’3”) could probably take down an attacker twice her size. 

“Keep an eye on the van, yeah?” Combeferre tosses over his shoulder as they make their way down the street, fading in and out of patches of lamplight. Enjolras comes over, finished with his cursory examination of the engine (like he knows _anything_ about how cars work) and folds his arms.

“Yeah, it looks pretty bad,” he says, and there is a short silence. They’ve had the luck, at least, of breaking down in front of a park–more a strip of yellowed grass with a few picnic tables than anything else. Grantaire and Enjolras go sit on one of the tables, a warped wooden thing covered in graffiti. Grantaire fishes for his lighter and a cigarette, offers one to Enjolras.

“No thanks,” says Enjolras. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Straight-edge?” Grantaire asks (he hopes not, selfishly, because all the straight-edge punks he knows tend to avoid casual sex). 

“Not exactly. Just...health reasons, I suppose. And the evils of the tobacco industry.” 

Grantaire thinks about it, letting the smoke curl out of the corner of his mouth.

“I really should quit,” he says finally. 

They start out talking about life (school, the weather) and end up talking about _life_ (Grantaire’s alcoholic father, Enjolras’ wealthy absentee parents), the way that you do with someone you just met on a picnic table at one in the morning. Grantaire rambles about growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, Enjolras’ eyes get dark as he talks about the cuts on his mother’s lip in the shape of his father’s Harvard class ring. Enjolras discourses about social revolution, Grantaire decries the idealism of student protesters. 

“I like you,” he says finally, and he doesn’t know if he’s drunk off liquor or the way that Enjolras’ lips move around the word ‘revolution’. 

“What a coincidence,” says Enjolras. “I like you too.” 

And then they’re kissing, and Grantaire is leaning forward into Enjolras’ touch, drinking in the smell of sweat and booze and mint gum, and he thinks that he could get used to the taste of Enjolras’ tongue in his mouth. 

“Oh,” someone says, and apparently Combeferre and Eponine have been watching them make out for, like, an entire minute. 

“Are we interrupting something?” Eponine giggles, and Enjolras flushes. Combeferre tells them that Feuilly and his van are on the way, and his grinning girlfriend flounces over to punch Enjolras on the arm.

“No need to tell Feuilly where Grantaire’s place is, then? I expect he’ll just be going home with you?” She’s obviously only half-joking, and Enjolras’ cheeks heat red, but Grantaire prays _please in the name of all that is holy say yes take me home let me worship you sweet baby jesus_ and, well, Enjolras doesn’t say no. 

When Feuilly’s van does arrive, heralded by the labored wheezing of another old engine and headlights slicing through the mist, he helps Enjolras and Combeferre pile instruments into the back, then clambers in to squeeze beside a drum kit. Eponine rides shotgun–it hasn’t taken long for Grantaire to realize that she’s a lot more than the token band girlfriend–while Combeferre wedges himself between the bass guitar and a couple of amps. It’s dark in the back of the van, the tangle of limbs and instruments illuminated by the occasional red-yellow flash of other car’s headlights. They turn off the interstate and Enjolras laces his fingers through Grantaire’s. 

“Well,” he says slowly, his eyes sliding to meet Grantaire’s gaze in the warm dark. “What do you say, wanna come back to mine?” 

_Sweet Jesus yes_ , Grantaire thinks, but he just squeezes Enjolras’ hand and says,

“I’d love to.” 

And they drive on, through the foggy city darkness, and Grantaire thinks,

_I could get used to this._


End file.
